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MAGIC 

A FANTASTIC COMEDY 






UNIFORM WITH THIS V0LU31E 

THOMPSON 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 

BY 

ST. JOHN HANKIN & 
GEORGE CALDERON 

Price Two Shillings Net in Cloth and 
One Shilling- Net in Paper 



MAGIC 

A FANTASTIC COMEDY 

BY 

G. K. CHESTERTON 



LONDON 

MARTIN SECKER 

NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET 
ADELPHI 






PRINTED AT 

THE BALLANTYNE PRESS 

LONDON 



(S)CU>tl817 



k 



THE CHARACTERS 

The Duke 

Doctor Grimthorpe 

The Eev. Cyril Smith 

Morris Carleon 

Hastings, the DuTce's Secretary 

The Stranger 

Patricia Carleon 

The action tahes inlace in the Duke's Drawi7ig-room. 



NOTE 



This play was presented under the management of Kenelm 
Foss at The Little Theatre, London, on November 7, 1913 
with the following cast : 



The Stranger 
Patricia Carleon 
The Rev. Cyril Smith 
Dr. Grimthorpb 
The Duke 
Hastings 
Morris Carleon 



Franklin Dyall 
Miss Grace Croft 
0. P. Heggie 
William Farren 
Fred Lewis 
Frank Randell 
Lionel Watts 



THE PRELUDE 

Scene : A plantation of thin young trees, in a misty 
and rainy twilight ; some woodland blossom show- 
ing the patches on the earth between the stems. 

The Stranger is discovered, a cloaked figure with a 
pointed hood. His costume might belong to modern 
or any other time, and the conical hood is so draivn 
over the head that little can be seen of the face. 

A distant voice, a woman^s, is heard, half-singing, half- 
chanting, unintelligible words. The cloaked figure 
raises its head and listens with interest. The song 
draws nearer and Patricia Carleon enters. She 
is dark and slight, and has a dreamy ex- 
pression. Though she is artistically dressed, her 
hair is a little wild. She has a broken branch of 
some flowering tree in her hand. She does not 
notice the stranger, and though he has watched her 
with interest, makes no sign. Suddenly she perceives 
him and starts back. 

Patricia. Oh ! Who are you ? 

9 



10 MAGIC ACT I 

Stranger. Ah! Who am I? [Conwiences to mutter 
to himself, and maj^s out the ground with his staff.] 

I have a hat, but not to wear ; 
I wear a sword, but not to slay. 
And ever in my bag I bear 
A pack of cards, but not to play. 

Patricia. What are you ? What are you saying ? 

Stranger. It is the language of the fairies, 
daughter of Eve. 

Patricia. But I never thought fairies were like 
you. Why, you are taller than I am. 

Stranger. We are of such stature as we will. But 
the elves grow small, not large, when they would mix 
with mortals. 

Patricia. You mean they are beings greater than 
we are. 

Stranger, Daughter of men, if you would see a 
fairy as he truly is, look for his head above all the stars 
and his feet amid the floors of the sea. Old women 
have tavTght you that the fairies are too small to be 
seen. But I tell you the fairies are too mighty to be 
seen. For they are the elder gods before whom the 
giants were like pigmies. They are the Elemental 
Spirits, and any one of them is larger than the world. 
And you look for them in acorns and on toadstools 
and wonder that you never see them. 

Patricia. But you come in the shape and size of a 
man? 

Stranger. Because I would speak with a woman. 



ACT I MAGIC 11 

Pateicia. [Drawing hack in awe.] I think you are 
growing taller as you speak. 

[The scene appears to fade away, and give 
place to the milieu of Act One, the 
Duhe^s drawing-room, an apartment loith 
open French windoivs or any opening large 
enough to show a garden and one house fairly 
near. It is evening, and there is a red 
lam2) lighted in the house beyond. The 
Rev. Cyril Smith is sitting with hat and 
umbrella beside hhn, evidently a visitor. 
He is a young man with the highest of High 
Church dog-collars and all the qualities of 
a restrained fanatic. He is one of the 
Christian Socialist sort and takes his priest- 
hood seriously. He is an honest man, and 
not an ass. 
[To him enters Mr. Hastings with papers in 
his hand. 
Hastings. Oh, good evening. You are Mr. Smith. 
[Pause.] I mean you are the Rector, I think. 
Smith. I am the Rector. 

Hastings. I am the Duke's secretary. His Grace 
asks me to say that he hopes to see you very soon ; 
but he is engaged just now with the doctor. 
Smith, Is the Duke ill ? 

Hastings. [Laughing.] Oh, no ; the doctor has come 
to ask him to help some cause or other. The Duke is 
never ill. 

Smith. Is the doctor with him now ? 



12 MAGIC ACT I 

Hastings. Why, strictly speaking, he is not. The 
doctor has gone over the road to fetch a paper con- 
nected with his proposal. But he hasn't far to go, 
as you can see. That's his red lamp at the end of 
his grounds. 

Smith. Yes, I know. I am much obliged to you. 
I will wait as long as is necessary. 

Hastings. [Cheerfully. 1 Oh, it won't be very long. 

[Exit. 
[Enter hy the garden doors Dr. Grimthorpe 
reading an open paper. He is an old- 
fashioned practitioner, very much of a 
gentleman and very carefully dressed in a 
slightly antiquated style. He is about sixty 
years old and might have been a friend of 
Huxley's. 
Doctor. [Folding up the paper.] I beg your pardon, 
sir, I did not notice there was anyone here. 

Smith. [Amicably.] I beg yours. A new clergym.an 
cannot expect to be expected. I only came to see the 
Duke about some local affairs. 

Doctor. [Smiling.] And so, oddly enough, did I. 
But I suppose we should both like to get hold of him 
by a separate ear. 

Smith. Oh, there's no disguise as far as I'm con- 
cerned. I've joined this league for starting a model 
public-house in the parish ; and in plain words, I've 
come to ask his Grace for a subscription to it. 

Doctor. [Grimly.] And, as it happens, I have 
joined in the petition against the erection of a model 



ACT I MAGIC 13 

public-house in this parish. The similarity of our 
position grows with every instant. 

Smith. Yes, I think we must have been twins. 

Doctor. [More good-humouredly,'] Well, what is a 
model public-house ? Do you mean a toy ? 

Smith. I mean a place where Englishmen can get 
decent drink and drink it decently. Do you call that 
a toy ? 

Doctor. N'o ; I should call that a conjuring trick. 
Or, in apology to your cloth, I will say a miracle. 

Smith. I accept the apology to my cloth. I am 
doing my duty as a priest. How can the Church 
have a right to make men fast if she does not allow 
them to feast ? 

Doctor. [Bitterly.'] And when you have done 
feasting them, you will send them to me to be 
cured. 

Smith. Yes ; and when you've done curing them 
you'll send them to me to be buried. 

Doctor. [After a pause, laughing.'] Well, you have 
all the old doctrines. It is only fair you should have 
all the old jokes too. 

Smith. [Laughing also.] By the way, you call it 
a conjuring trick that poor people should drink 
moderately. 

Doctor. I call it a chemical discovery that alcohol 
is not a food. 

Smith. You don't drink wine yourself ? 

Doctor. [Mildly startled.] Drink wine ! Well— 
what else is there to drink ? 



14 MAGIC ACT I 

Smith. So drinking decently is a conjuring trick 
that you can do, anyhow ? 

Doctor. [Still good-humouredly.'] Well, well, let us 
hope so. Talking about conjuring tricks, there is 
to be conjuring and all kinds of things here this 
afternoon. 

Smith. Conjuring ? Indeed ? Why is that ? 

Enter Hastings with a letter in each hand, 

Hastings. His Grace will be with you presently. 
He asked me to deal with the business matter first 
of all. [He gives a note to each of them. 

Smith. [Turning eagerly to the Doctor.] But this 
is rather splendid. The Duke's given £60 to the 
new public-house. 

Hastings. The Duke is very liberal. 

[Collects papers. 

Doctor. [Examining his cheque.] Very. But this 
is rather curious. He has also given £50 to the 
league for opposing the new public-house. 

Hastings. The Duke is very liberal-minded. [Exit. 

Smith. [Sta7-'ing at his cheque.] Liberal-minded ! 
. . . Absent-minded, I should call it. 

Doctor. [Sitting down and lighting a cigar.] Well, 
yes. The Duke does suffer a little from absence 
[puts his cigar in his mouth and pulls during the 
pause] of mind. He is all for compromise. Don't 
you know the kind of man who, when you 
talk to him about the five best breeds of dog, 
always ends up by buying a mongrel ? The 



ACT I MAGIC 15 

Duke is the kindest of men, and always trying to 
please everybody. He generally finishes by pleasing 
nobody. 

Smith. Yes ; I think I know the sort of thing. 

Doctor. Take this conjuring, for instance. You 
know the Duke has two wards who are to live with 
him now ? 

Smith. Yes. I heard something about a nephew 
and niece from Ireland. 

Doctor. The niece came from Ireland some months 
ago, but the nephew comes back from America to- 
night. [He gets up abruptly and walks about the room.] 
I think I will tell you all about it. In spite of your 
precious public-house you seem to me to be a sane 
man. And I fancy I shall want all the sane men I 
can get to-night. 

Smith. [Rising also.] I am at your service. Do you 
know, I rather guessed you did not come here only to 
protest against my precious public-house. 

Doctor. [Striding about in subdued excitement.] 
Well, you guessed right. I was family physician to 
the Duke's brother in Ireland. I knew the family 
pretty well. 

Smith. [Quietly.] I suppose you mean you knew 
something odd about the family ? 

Doctor. Well, they saw fairies and things of that 
sort. 

Smith. And I suppose, to the medical mind, seeing 
fairies means much the same as seeing snakes ? 

Doctor. [With a sour smile.] Well, they saw them 



16 MAGIC ACT I 

in Ireland. I suppose it's quite correct to see fairies 
in Ireland. It's like gambling at Monte Carlo. It's 
quite respectable. But I do draw the line at their 
seeing fairies in England. I do object to their 
bringing their ghosts and goblins and witches into the 
poor Duke's own back garden and within a yard of 
my own red lamp. It shows a lack of tact. 

Smith. But I do understand that the Duke's 
nephew and niece see witches and fairies between 
here and your lamp. 

[Re walks to the garden loindow and looks out. 

Doctor. Well, the nephew has been in America. 
It stands to reason you can't see fairies in America. 
But there is this sort of superstition in the family, 
and I am not easy in my mind about the girl. 

Smith. Why, what does she do ? 

Doctor. Oh, she wanders about the park and the 
woods in the evenings. Damp evenings for choice. 
She calls it the Celtic twilight. I've no use for the 
Celtic twilight myself. It has a tendency to get on 
the chest. But what is worse, she is always talking 
about meeting somebody, some elf or wizard or some- 
thing. I don't like it at all. 

Smith. Have you told the Duke ? 

Doctor. [With a grim smile,] Oh, yes, I told the 
Duke. The result was the conjurer. 

Smith. [With amazement.] The conjurer ? 
Doctor. [Puts doivn his cigar in the ash-tray.] The 
Duke is indescribable. He will be here presently, and 
you shall judge for yourself. Put two or three facts 



ACT I 



MAGIC 17 



or ideas before him, and the thing he makes out of 
them is always something that seems to have nothing 
to do with it. Tell any other human being about a 
girl dreaming of the fairies and her practical brother 
from America, and he would settle it in some obvious 
way and satisfy some one : send her to America or let 
her have her fairies in Ireland. Now the Duke thinks 
a conjurer would just meet the case. I suppose he 
vaguely thinks it would brighten things up, and some- 
how satisfy the believers' interest in supernatural 
things and the unbelievers' interest in smart things. 
As a matter of fact the unbeliever thinks the con- 
jurer's a fraud, and the believer thinks he's a fraud, 
too. The conjurer satisfies nobody. That is why he 
satisfies the Duke. 

[Enter the Duke, with Hastings, car7'ying 
papers. The Duke is a healthy^ hearty man 
in tweeds^ with a rather wandering eye. 
In the present state of the peerage it is 
necessary to explain that the Duke, though 
an ass, is a gentleman. 

Duke. Good morning, Mr. Smith. So sorry to 
have kept you waiting, but we're rather in a rush to- 
day. [Turns to Hastings, ivho has gone over to a table 
with the papers.^ You know Mr. Oarleon is coming 
this afternoon ? 

Hastings. Yes, your Grace. His train will be in 
by now. I have sent the trap. 

Duke. Thank you. [Turning to the other two.^ My 
nephew, Dr. Grimthorpe, Morris, you know, Miss 



18 MAGIC ACT I 

Oarleon's brother from America. I hear he's been 
doing great things out there. Petrol, or something. 
Must move with the times, eh ? 

Doctor. I'm afraid Mr. Smith doesn't always 
agree with moving with the times. 

Duke. Oh, come, come ! Progress, you know, pro- 
gress ! Of course I know how busy you are ; you 
mustn't overwork yourself, you know. Hastings was 
telling me you laughed over those subscriptions of 
mine. Well, well, I believe in looking at both sides 
of a question, you know. Aspects, as old Buffle called 
them. Aspects. [With an all-embracing gesture of the 
arm.] You represent the tendency to drink in 
moderation, and you do good in your way. The 
Doctor represents the tendency, not to drink at all ; 
and he does good in his way. We can't be Ancient 
Britons, you know. 

[A prolonged and puzzled silence, such as 
always follows the more abrupt of the 
Duke's associations or disassociations of 
thought. 

Smith. [At last, faintly. ^^ Ancient Britons. . . . 

Doctor. \To Smith in a low voice.] Don't bother. 
It's only his broad-mindedness. 

Duke. [With unabated cheerfidness.] I saw the place 
you're putting up for it, Mr. Smith. Yery good 
work. Yery good work, indeed. Art for the people, 
eh ? I particularly liked that woodwork over the 
west door — I'm glad to see you're using the new 



ACT I 



MAGIC 19 



sort of graining . . . why, it all reminds one of the 
French Revolution. 

[A7iother silence. As the Duke lounges alertly 
about the 7'oom, Smith speaks to the Doctor 
in an undertone. 
Smith. Does it remind you of the French Revolu- 
tion ? 

Doctor. As much as of anything else. His Grace 
never reminds me of anything. 

[A young and very high Aonerican voice is 
heard calling in the garden, " /Say, could 
somebody see to one of these trunks ? " 

[Mr. Hastings goes out into the garden. He 
returns with Morris Carleon, a very 
young man : hardly more than a boy, but 
with very grown-up American di^ess and 
manners. He is dark, smallish, and active ; 
and the racial type under his Americanism 
is Irish. 

Morris. [Humorously, as he puts in his head at 
the ivindoiv.] See here, does a Duke live here ? 

Doctor. [Who is Clearest to him, with great gravity^ 
Yes, only one. 

Morris. I reckon he's the one I want, anyhow. 
I'm his nephew. 

\The Duke, who is ruminating in the fore- 
ground, with one eye rather off, turns at 
the voice and shakes Morris warmly by 
the hand. 



20 MAGIC ACT I 

Duke. Delighted to see you, my dear boy. I hear 
you've been doing very well for yourself. 

Morris. [Laughing.] Well, pretty well, Duke ; and 
better still for Paul T. Yandam, I guess. I manage 
the old man's mines out in Arizona, you know. 

Duke. [Shaking his head sagaciously.] Ah, very 
go-ahead man ! Very go-ahead methods, I'm told. 
Well, I dare say he does a great deal of good with his 
money. And we can't go back to the Spanish 
Inquisition. 

[Silence, during which the three men look at 
each other. 

Morris. [Abruptly.] And how's Patricia ? 

Duke. [A little hazily.] Oh, she's very well, I think. 
She . . . [He hesitates slightly. 

Morris. [S^niling.] Well, then, where's Patricia ? 
[The7^e is a slightly emharrassed pause, and 
the Doctor speaks. 

Doctor. Miss Carleon is walking about the 
grounds, I think. 

[Morris goes to the garden doors and looks out. 

Morris. It's a mighty chilly night to choose. 
Does my sister commonly select such evenings to take 
the air — and the damp ? 

Doctor. [After a pause.] If I may say so, I quite 
agree with you. I have often taken the liberty of 
warning your sister against going out in all weathers 
like this. 

Duke. [Expansively waving his hands about.] The 
artist temperament ! What I always call .the 



ACT I 



MAGIC 21 



artistic temperament ! Wordsworth, you know, and 
all that. [Silence. 

Morris. [jStaring.] All what ? 

Duke. [Continuing to lecture loith enthusiasm.'] 
Why, everything's temperment, you know ! It's her 
temperament to see the fairies. It's my tempera- 
ment not to see the fairies. Why, I've walked all 
round the grounds twenty times and never saw a 
fairy. Well, it's like that about this wizard or what- 
ever she calls it. For her there is somebody there. 
For us there would not be somebody there. Don't 
you see? 

Morris. [Advancing excitedly »^ Somebody there ! 
What do you mean ? 

Duke. [Airily. \ Well, you can't quite call it a 
man. 

Morris. [Violently.'] A man ! 

Duke. Well, as old Buffle used to say, what is a 
man ? 

Morris. [With a strong rise of the A merican accent] 
With your permission, Duke, I eliminate old BuiSle. 
Do you mean that anybody has had the tarnation 
coolness to suggest that some man . . . 

Duke. Oh, not a man, you know. A magician, 
something mythical, you know. 

Smith. Not a man, but a medicine man. 

Doctor. [Grimly.] I am a medicine man. 

Morris. And you don't look mythical, Doc. 

[He bites his finger and begins to pace restlessly 
up and down the room. 



22 MAGIC ACT I 

Duke. Well, you know, the artistic tempera- 
ment . . . 

Morris. [Turning suddenly.] See here, Duke ! In 
most commercial ways we're a pretty forward country. 
In these moral ways we're content to be a pretty 
backward country. And if you ask me whether I like 
my sister walking about the woods on a night like 
this ! Well, I don't. 

Duke. I am afraid you Americans aren't so ad- 
vanced as I'd hoped. Why! as old Buffle used to 
say . . . 

[Ashe speaks a distant voice ishea^'d singing in 
the garden, it comes nearer and nearer, and 
Smith turns suddenly to the Doctor. 

Smith. Who's voice is that ? 

Doctor. It is no business of mine to decide ! 

Morris. [Walking to the windoio^ You need not 
trouble. I know who it is. 

Enter Patricia Carleon. 

[Still agitated.'] Patricia, where have you been ? 

Patricia. [Bather wearily.] Oh ! in Fairyland. 

Doctor. [Genially.] And whereabouts is that ? 

Patricia. It's rather different from other places. 
It's either nowhere or it's wherever you are. 

Morris. [Sha^yly.] Has it any inhabitants ? 

Patricia. Generally only two. Oneself and one's 
shadow. But whether he is my shadow or I am his 
shadow is never found out. 

Morris. He? Who? 



ACT I MAGIC 23 

Patricia. [Seeming to undei^stand his annoyance for 
the first ti7ne, and smiling.] Oh, you needn't get con- 
ventional about it, Morris. He is not a mortal. 
Morris. What's his name ? 

Patricia. We have no names there. You never 
really know anybody if you know his name. 
Morris. What does he look like ? 
Patricia. I have only met him in the twihght. 
He seems robed in a long cloak, with a peaked cap or 
hood like the elves in my nursery stories. Sometimes 
when I look out of the window here, I see him passing 
round this house like a shadow ; and see his pointed 
hood, dark against the sunset or the rising of the 
moon. 

Smith. What does he talk about ? 
Patricia. He tells me the truth. Very many 
true things. He is a wizard. 

Morris. How do you know he's a wizard? I 
suppose he plays some tricks on you. 

Patricia. I should know he was a wizard if he 
played no tricks. But once he stooped and picked up 
a stone and cast it into the air, and it flew up into 
God's heaven like a bird. 

Morris. Was that what first made you think he 
was a wizard ? 

Patricia. Oh, no. When I first saw him he was 
tracing circles and penticles in the grass and talking 
the language of the elves. 

Morris. [Scepticalli/.] Do you know the language 
of the elves ? 



24 MAGIC ACT I 

Patricia. Not until I heard it. 

MoREis. [Lowering his voice as if for his sister, hut 
losing patience so completely that he talks much louder 
than he imagines.^ See here, Patricia, I reckon this 
kind of thing is going to be the limit. I'm just not 
going to have you let in by some blamed tramp or 
fortune-teller because you choose to read minor poetry 
about the fairies. If this gipsy or whatever he is 
troubles you again . . . 

Doctor. [Putting his hand on Morris's shoulder.] 
Come, you must allow a little more for poetry. We 
can't all feed on nothing but petrol. 

Duke. Quite right, quite right. And being Irish, 
don't you know, Celtic, as old Buffle used to say, 
charming songs, you know, about the Irish girl who 
has a plaid shawl — and a Banshee. [Sighs profoundly.] 
Poor old Gladstone ! [Silence as usual. 

Smith. [Speaking to Doctor.] I thought you your- 
self considered the family superstition bad for the 
health ? 

Doctor. I consider a family superstition is better 
for the health than a family quarrel. [Re walks 
casually across to Patricia.] Well, it must be nice to 
be young and still see all those stars and sunsets. We 
old buffers won't be too strict with you if your view 
of things sometimes gets a bit — mixed up, shall we 
say? If the stars get loose about the grass by 
mistake ; or if, once or twice, the sunset gets into the 
east. We should only say " Dream as much as you 
like. Dream for all mankind. Dream for us who 



ACT I 



MAGIC 9.5 



can dream no longer. But do not quite forget the 
difference." 

Patricia. What difference ? 

Doctor. The difference between the things that are 
beautiful and the things that are there. That red 
lamp over my door isn't beautiful ; but it's there. 
You might even come to be glad it is there, when the 
stars of gold and silver have faded. I am an old man 
now, but some men are still glad to find my red star. 
I do not say they are the wise men. 

Patricia. [Somewhat affected.] Yes, I know you 
are good to everybody. But don't you think there 
may be floating and spiritual stars which will last 
longer than the red lamps ? 

Smith. [With decision.] Yes. But they are fixed 
stars. 

Doctor. The red lamp will last my time. 

Duke. Capital ! Capital ! Why, it's like Tenny- 
son. [Silence.] I remember when I was an under- 
grad . . . 

[The red light disappears, no one sees it at first 
except Patricia, loho points excitedly. 

Morris. What's the matter ? 

Pat. The red star is gone. 

Morris. Nonsense ! [Rushes to the garden doors. 
It's only somebody standing in front of it. Say, 
Duke, there's somebody standing in the garden. 

Patricia. [Calmly ^^ I told you he walked about 
the garden. 



26 MAGIC ACT I 

Morris. If it's that fortune-teller of yours . . . 
[Disappears into the garden^ followed hy the 
Doctor. 
Duke. [Staring.'] Somebody in the garden ! 
Beally, this Land Campaign . . . [Silence, 

[Morris reappears rather breathless. 
Morris. A spry fellow, your friend. He slipped 
through my hands like a shadow. 

Patricia. I told you he was a shadow. 
Morris. Well, I guess there's going to be a shadow 
hunt. Got a lantern, Duke ? 

Patricia. Oh, you need not trouble. He will come 
if I call him. 

[She goes out into the garden and calls out 
some half-chanted and unintelligible loords, 
somewhat like the song preceding her 
entrance. The red light reappears; and 
there is a slight sound as of fallen leaves 
shuffled by approaching feet. The cloaked 
Stranger with the pointed hood is seen 
standing outside the garden doors. 
Patricia. You may enter all doors. 

[The figure comes into the room. 
Morris. [SMctting the garden doors behind him.] 
Now, see here, wizard, we've got you. And we know 
you're a fraud. 

Smith. [Quietly.] Pardon me, I do not fancy that 
we know that. For myself I must confess to some- 
thing of the Doctor's agnosticism. 

Morris. [Excited, and turning almost loith a 



ACT I MAGIC 27 

snarl.] I didn't know you parsons stuck up for any 
fables but your own. 

Smith. I stick up for the thing every man has a 
right to. Perhaps the only thing that every man has 
a right to. 

MoREis. And what is that ? 

Smith. The benefit of the doubt. Even your 
master, the petroleum milh'onaire, has a right to 
that. And I think he needs it more. 

Morris. I don't think there's much doubt about the 
question, Minister. I've met this sort of fellow often 
enough — the sort of fellow who wheedles money out of 
girls by telling them he can make stones disappear. 

Doctor. [To the Stranger.] Do you say you can 
make stones disappear ? 

Stranger. Yes. I can make stones disappear. 

Morris. [Roughly.] I reckon you're the kind of 
tough who knows how to make a watch and chain 
disappear. 

Stranger. Yes ; I know how to make a watch and 
chain disappear. 

Morris. And I should think you were pretty good 
at disappearing yourself ? 

Stranger. I have done such a thing. 

Morris. [With a sneer.] Will you disappear now ? 

Stranger. [After reflection.] No, I think I'll appear 
instead. [He throivs hack his hood, showing the head of 
an intellectiLal-loohing man, young hut leather worn. 
Then he unfastens his cloak and throivs it off, emerging 
in complete modern evening dress. He advances down 



28 MAGIC ACT I 

the room towards the Duke, taking out his watch as he 
does so-l Good evening, your Grace. I'm afraid I'm 
rather too early for the performance. But this 
gentleman [loith a gesture towards Moekis] seemed 
rather impatient for it to begin. 

Duke. [Bather at a loss.] Oh, good evening. Why, 
really — are you the . . . ? 

Stranger. [Botving.] Yes. I am the conjurer, 

[There is general laughter, except from 
Patricia. As the others mingle in talk, 
the Stranger goes up to her. 

Stranger. [Ve^^y sadly.] I am very sorry I am not 
a wizard. 

Patricia. I wish you were a thief instead. 

Stranger. Have I committed a worse crime than 
thieving? 

Patricia. You have committed the cruellest crime, 
I think, that there is. 

Stranger. And what is the cruellest crime ? 

Patricia. Stealing a child's toy. 

Stranger. And what have I stolen ? 

Patricia. A fairy tale. 



curtain 



ACT II 

The same room lighted more hrilliantly an hour later 
in the evening. On one side a table covered with 
packs of cards y pyramids , etc., at which the 
Conjurer in evening dress is standing quietly 
setting out his tricks. A little more in the fore- 
ground the Duke ; and Hastings with a number 
of paper's. 

Hastings. There are only a few small matters. 
Here are the programmes of the entertainment your 
Grace wanted. Mr. Carleon wishes to see them very 
much. 

Duke. Thanks, thanks. [Takes the programmes. 

Hastings. Shall I carry them for your Grace ? 

Duke. No, no ; I shan't forget, I shan't forget. 
Why, you've no idea how businesslike I am. We 
have to be, you know. [Vagicely.] I know you're a 
bit of a Socialist; but I assure you there's a good 
deal to do — stake in the country, and all that. Look 
at remembering faces now ! The King never forgets 
faces. [Waves the programmes about.] I never forget 

29 



30 MAGIC ACT II 

faces. [Catches sight of the Conjurer and genially 
draws him into the discussion.] Why, the Professor 
here who performs before the King [puts down the 
program^nes] — you see it on the caravans, you know 
— performs before the King almost every night, I 
suppose . . . 

Conjurer. [Smiling.] I sometimes let his Majesty 
have an evening off*. And turn my attention, of 
course, to the very highest nobility. But naturally 
I have performed before every sovereign potentate, 
white and black. There never was a conjurer who 
hadn't. 

Duke. That's right, that's right ! Ai]d you'll say 
with me that the great business for a King is 
remembering people ? , 

Conjurer. I should say it was remembering which 
people to remember. 

Duke, Well, well, now . . . [Looks round rather 
wildly for something.] Being really businesslike . . . 

Hastings. Shall I take the programmes for your 
Grace ? 

Duke, [Picking them up^ No, no, I shan't forget. 
Is there anything else ? 

Hastings. I have to go down the village about the 
wire to Stratford. The only other thing at all 
urgent is the Militant Vegetarians. 

Duke. Ah ! The Militant Vegetarians ! You've 
heard of them, I'm sure. Won't obey the daw [to 
the Conjurer] so long as the Government serves out 
meat. 



ACT II MAGIC 31 

Conjurer. Let them be comforted. There are a 
good many people who don't get much meat. 

Duke. Well, well, I'm bound to say they're very 
enthusiastic. Advanced, too— oh, certainly advanced. 
Like Joan of Arc. 

[Short silence, in which the Conjurer stares 
at him. 

Conjurer. Was Joan of Arc a Vegetarian ? 

Duke. Oh, well, it's a very high ideal, after all. 
The Sacredness of Life, you know—the Sacredness 
of Life. [Shakes his head.] But they carry it too far. 
They killed a policeman down in Kent. 

Conjurer. Killed a policeman ? How Vegetarian ! 
Well, I suppose it was, so long as they didn't eat 
him. 

Hastings. They are asking only for small sub- 
scriptions. Indeed, they prefer to collect a large 
number of half-crowns, to prove the popularity of 
their movement. But I should advise . . . 

Duke. Oh, give them three shillings, then. 

Hastings. If I might suggest . . . 

Duke. Hang it all! We gave the Anti-Vegetarians 
three shillings. It seems only fair. 

Hastings. If I might suggest anything, I think 
your Grace will be wise not to subscribe in this case. 
The Anti-Vegetarians have already used their funds 
to form gangs ostensibly to protect their own 
meetings. And if the Vegetarians use theirs to 
break up the meetings— well, it will look rather 
funny that we have paid roughs on both sides. It 



S9. MAGIC ACT 11 

will be rather difficult to explain when it comes before 
the magistrate. 

Duke. But I shall be the magistrate. [Conjurer 
stares at him again.] That's the system, my dear 
Hastings, that's the advantage of the system. Not a 
logical system — no Rousseau in it — but see how well 
it works ! I shall be the very best magistrate that 
could be on the Bench. The others would be biassed, 
you know. Old Sir Lawrence is a Vegetarian him- 
self ; and might be hard on the Anti- Vegetarian 
roughs. Colonel Crashaw would be sure to be hard 
on the Vegetarian roughs. But if I've paid both of 
'em, of course I shan't be hard on either of 'em — and 
there you have it. Just perfect impartiality. 

Hastings. [Eestrainedlt/.] Shall I take the pro- 
grammes, your Grace ? 

Duke. [Heartily.'] No, no ; I won't forget 'em. 
[Exit Hastings.] Well, Professor, what's the news in 
the conjuring world? 

Conjurer. I fear there is never any news in the 
conjuring world. 

Duke. Don't you have a newspaper or something ? 
Everybody has a newspaper now, you know. The — 
er — Daily Sword-Swallower or that sort of thing ? 

Conjurer. No, I have been a journalist myself ; 
but I think journalism and conjuring will alwaj^s be 
incompatible. 

Duke. Incompatible — Oh, but that's where I differ 
— that's where I take larger views ! Larger laws, as 
old Buffle said. Nothing's incompatible, you know — 



ACT II MAGIC 83 

except husband and wife and so on ; you must talk to 
Morris about that. It's wonderful the way incom- 
patibility has gone forward in the States. 

Conjurer. I only mean that the two trades rest on 
opposite principles. The whole point of being a conjurer 
is that you won't explain a thing that has happened. 
Duke. Well, and the journalist ? 
Conjurer. Well, the whole point of being a 
journalist is that you do explain a thing that hasn't 
happened. 

Duke. But you'll want somewhere to discuss the 
new tricks. 

Conjurer. There are no new tricks. And if there 
were we shouldn't want 'em discussed. 

Duke. I'm afraid you're not really advanced. Are 
you interested in modern progress ? 

Conjurer. Yes. We are interested in all tricks 
done by illusion. 

Duke. Well, well, I must go and see how Morris 
is. Pleasure of seeing you later. 

[Exit Duke, leaving the programmes. 
Conjurer. Why are nice men such asses ? [Turns to 
arrange the table.^ That seems all right. The pack of 
cards that is a pack of cards. And the pack of cards 
that isn't a pack of cards. The hat that looks like a 
gentleman's hat. But which, in reality, is no gentle- 
man's hat. Only my hat ; and I am not a gentleman, 
I am only a conjurer, and this is only a conjurer's 
hat. I could not take off this hat to a lady. I can 
take rabbits out of it, goldfish out of it, snakes out of 





34 MAGIC ACT II 

it. Only I mustn't take my own head out of it. I 
suppose I'm a lower animal than a rabbit or a snake. 
Anyhow they can get out of the conjurer's hat ; and 
I can't. I am a conjurer and nothing else but a 
conjurer. Unless I could show I was something 
else, and that would be worse. 

[Re begins to dash the cards rather irregularly 
about the table. Enter Patricia. 
Patricia. [Coldly.] I beg your pardon. I came to 
get some programmes. My uncle wants them. 

[She walks swiftly across and fakes up the 
programmes. 
Conjurer. [Still dashing cards about the table.] Miss 
Carleon, might I speak to you a moment ? [He 
puts his hands in his pockets^ stares at the table ; and 
his face assumes a sardonic expression.] The question 
is purely practical. 

Patricia. [Pausing at the door.] I can hardly 
imagine what the question can be. 
Conjurer. I am the question. 
Patricia. And what have I to do with that ? 
Conjurer. You have everything to do with it. I 
am the question : you . . . 

Patricia. [Angrily.] Well, what am I? 
Conjurer. You are the answer. 
Patricia. The answer to what ? 
Conjurer. [Coming round to the front of the table 
and sitting against it.] The answer to me. You think 
I'm a liar because I walked about the fields with you 
and said I could make stones disappear. Well, so I 



ACT II MAGIC 35 

can. I'm a conjurer. In mere point of faci, it wasn't 
a lie. But if it had been a lie I should have told it just 
the same. I would have told twenty such lies. You 
may or may not know why. 

Patricia. I know nothing about such lies. 

[She puts her hand on tJte handle of the door, 

hut the Conjurer, who is sitting on the 

table and staring at his boots, does not 

notice the action, and goes on as in a sincere 

soliloquy. 

Conjurer. I don't know whether you have any 

notion of what it means to a man like me to talk to 

a lady like you, even on false pretences. I am an 

adventurer. I am a blackguard, if one can earn the 

title by being in all the blackguard societies of the 

world. I have thought everything out by myself, 

when I was a guttersnipe in Fleet Street, or, lower 

still, a journalist in Fleet Street. Before I met you 

I never guessed that rich people ever thought at all. 

Well, that is all I have to say. We had some good 

conversations, didn't we ? I am a liar. But I told 

you a great deal of the truth. 

[He turns and resumes the arrangement of the 
table. 
Patricia. [Thinking.] Yes, you did tell me a great 
deal of the truth. You told me hundreds and 
thousands of truths. But you never told me the 
truth that one wants to know. 
Conjurer. And what is that ? 
Patricia. [Turning hack into tha roo7n.] You never 



36 MAGIC ACT II 

told me the truth about yourself. You never told me 
you were only the conjurer. 

Conjurer. I did not tell you that because I do not 
even know it. I do not know whether I am only the 
conjurer . . . 

Patricia. What do you mean ? 

Conjurer. Sometimes I am afraid I am something 
worse than the conjurer. 

Patricia, [Seriously.] I cannot think of anything 
worse than a conjurer who does not call himself a 
conjurer. 

Conjurer. [Glooinily.] There is something worse. 
[Rallying himself.] But that is not what I want to 
say. Do you really find that very unpardonable ? 
Come, let me put you a case, Never mind about 
whether it is our case. A man spends his time 
incessantly in going about in third-class carriages to 
fifth-rate lodgings. He has to make up new tricks, 
new patter, new nonsense, sometimes every night of 
his life. Mostly he has to do it in the beastly black 
cities of the Midlands and the North, where he can't 
get out into the country. Now and again he does it 
at some gentleman's country-house, where he can get 
out into the country. Well, you know that actors 
and orators and all sorts of people like to rehearse 
their effects in the open air if they can. [Smiles!] You 
know that story of the great statesman who was heard 
by his own gardener saying, as he paced the garden, 
" Had I, Mr. Speaker, received the smallest intima- 
tion that I could be called upon to speak this 



ACT II 



MAGIC 37 



evening . . ." [Patricia controls a smile^ and he goes 
on loith overivhehning enthusiasm ^^ Well, conjurers 
are just the same. It takes some time to prepare an 
impromptu. A man like that walks about the woods 
and fields doing all his tricks beforehand, and talking 
all sorts of gibberish because he thinks he is alone. 
One evening this man found he was not alone. He 
found a very beautiful child was watching him. 

Patricia. A child ? 

Conjurer. Yes. That was his first impression. 
He is an intimate friend of mine. I have known him 
all my life. He tells me he has since discovered she 
is not a child. She does not fulfil the definition. 

Patricia, What is the definition of a child ? 

Conjurer. Somebody you can play with. 

Patricia. [Abruptly.'] Why did you wear that 
cloak with the hood up ? 

Conjurer. [Smiling .^^ I think it escaped your notice 
that it was raining. 

Patricia. [Smili^ig faintly,'\ And what did this 
friend of yours do ? 

Conjurer. You have already told me what he did. 
He destroyed a fairy tale, for he created a fairy tale 
that he was bound to destroy. \Sioinging round 
suddenly on the table.] But do you blame a man 
very much, Miss Carleon, if he enjoyed the only 
fairy tale he had had in his life? Suppose he said 
the silly circles he was drawing for practice were 
really magic circles ? Suppose he said the bosh he 
was talking was the language of the elves ? Remem- 



38 MAGIC ACT IT 

ber, ha has read fairy tales as much as you have. 
Fairy tales are the only democratic institutions. All 
the classes have heard all the fairy tales. Do you 
blame him very much if he, too, tried to have a 
holiday in fairyland ? 

Patricia. [Simply.] I blame him less than I did. 
But I still say there can be nothing worse than false 
magic. And, after all, it was he who brought the 
false magic. 

Conjurer. [Rising from his seat.] Yes. It was 
she who brought the real magic. 

[Enter Morris, in evening-dress. He loalks 
st7'aight up to the conjuring -table ; and 
picks up one article after another ^ putting 
each down with a comment. 

Morris. T know that one. I know that. I know 
that. Let's see, that's the false bottom, I think. 
That works with a wire. I know that; it goes up 
the sleeve. That's the false bottom again. That's 
the substituted pack of cards — that . . . 

Patricia. Really, Morris, you mustn't talk as if 
you knew everything. 

Conjurer. Oh, I don't mind anyone knowing 
everything, Miss Carleon. There is something that 
is much more important than knowing how a thing is 
done. 

Morris, And what's that ? 

Conjurer. Knowing how to do it. 

Mokris. [Beconmig nasal again in anger.] That's so, 



ACT II 



MAGIC 39 



eh? Being the high-toned conjurer because you 
can't any longer take all the sidewalk as a fairy. 

Patricia. [Crossing the room and speaking seriously 
to her brother.] Really, Morris, you are very rude. 
And it's quite ridiculous to be rude. This gentleman 
was only practising some tricks by himself in the 
garden. [With a certain dignity.] If there was any 
mistake, it was mine. Come, shake hands, or whatever 
men do when they apologize. Don't be silly. He 
won't turn you into a bowl of goldfish. 

Morris. [Reluctantly.] Well, I guess that's so. 
[Offering his hand.] Shake. [They shake hands.] And 
you won't turn me into a bowl of goldfish anyhow, 
Professor. I understand that when you do produce 
a bowl of goldfish, they are generally slips of carrot. 
That is so, Professor ? 

Conjurer. [Sharply.] Yes. [P^^oduces a bowl of 
goldfish from his tail pockets and holds it under the 
other's nose^ Judge for yourself. 

Morris. [In monstrous excitement.] Very good! 
Very good ! But I know how that's done — I know 
how that's done. You have an india-rubber cap, 
you know, or cover . . , 

Conjurer. Yes. 

[Goes hack gloomily to his table a/nd sits on it, 
picking up a pack of cards and balancing 
it in his hand. 

Morris. Ah, most mysteries are tolerably plain if 
you know the apparatus. [JSnter Doctor and Smith, 
talking with grave faces, but growing silent as they 



40 M A G I C ACT II 

reach the group.] i guess 1 wish we had all the old 
apparatus of all the old Priests and Prophets since 
the beginning of the world. I guess most of the old 
miracles and that were a matter of just panel and 
wires. 

Conjurer. I don't quite 'understand you. What 
old apparatus do you want so much ? 

Morris. [J37'eaking out tvith all the frenzy of the 
yoimg free-thinker.'] Well, sir, I just want that old 
apparatus that turned rods into snakes. I want 
those smart appliances, sir, that brought w^atcr out of 
a rock when old man Moses chose to hit it. I guess 
it's a pity we've lost the machinery. I would like to 
have those olfl conjurers here that called themselves 
Patriarchs and Prophets in your precious Bible . . . 

Patricia. Morris, you mustn't talk like that. 

Morris. Well, I don't believe in religion . . . 

Doctor. [ylstc?e.] Hush, hush. Nobody but women 
believe in religion. 

Patricia. [^Humorously^ I think this is a fitting 
opportunity to show you another ancient conjuring 
trick. 

Doctor. Which one is that ? 

Patricia. The Vanishing Lady ! \Exit Patricia. 

Smith. There is one part of their old apparatus I 
regret especially being lost. 

Morris. [Still excited.] Yes ! 

Smith. The apparatus for writing the Book of Job. 

Morris. Well, well, they didn't know everything 
in those old times. 



ACT II M A G I C 41 

Smith. No, and in those old times they knew they 
didn't. [Dreamily.] Where shall wisdom be found, 
and what is the place of understanding ? 

Conjurer. Somewhere in America, I believe. 

Smith. [Still dreamily.'] Man knoweth not the price 
thereof ; neither is it found in the land of the living. 
The deep sayeth it is not in me, the sea sayeth it is 
not with me. Death and destruction say we have 
heard tell of it. God understandeth the way thereof 
and He knoweth the place thereof. For He looketh 
to the ends of the earth and seeth under the whole 
Heaven. But to man He hath said : Behold the fear 
of the Lord that is wisdom, and to depart from evil 
is understanding. [Turns suddenly to the Doctor.] 
How's that for Agnosticism, Dr. Grimthorpe ? What 
a pity that apparatus is lost. 

MoRRisi. Well, you may jus^. smile how you choose, 
I reckon. But I say the conjurer here could be the 
biggest man in the big blessed centuries if he could 
just show us how the Holy old tricks were done. 
We must say this for old man Moses, that he was in 
advance of his time. When he did the old tricks they 
w^ere new tricks. He got the pull on the public. He 
could do his tricks before grown men, great bearded 
fighting men who could win battles and sing Psalms. 
But this modern conjuring is all behind the times. 
That's why they only do it with schoolboys. There 
isn't a trick on that table I don't know. The whole 
trade's as dead as mutton ; and not half so satisfying. 
Why he [pointing to the Conjurer] brought out a 



42 MAGIC 



ACT II 



bowl of goldfish just now — an old trick that anybody 
could do. 

Conjurer. Oh, I quite agree. The apparatus is 
perfectly simple. By the way, let me have a look at 
those goldfish of yours, will you ? 

Morris. [Angrily.] I'm not a paid play-actor come 
here to conjure. I'm not here to do stale tricks ; I'm 
here to see through 'em. I say it's an old trick 
and . . . 

Conjurer. True. But as you said, we never show 
it except to schoolboys. 

Morris. And may I ask you, Professor Hocus 
Pocus, or whatever your name is, whom you are 
calling a schoolboy ? 

Conjurer. I beg your pardon. Your sister will 
tell you I am sometimes mistaken about children. 

Morris. I forbid you to appeal to my sister. 

Conjurer. That is exactly what a schoolboy would 
do. 

Morris. [With abrupt and dangerous calm,] I am 
not a schoolboy. Professor. I am a quiet business 
man. But I tell you in the country I come from, 
the hand of a quiet business man goes to his hip 
pocket at an insult like that. 

Conjurer. [Fiercely.] Let it go to his pocket ! I 
thought the hand of a quiet business man more often 
went to someone else's pocket. 

Morris. You . . . 

[Puts his hand to his hip. The Doctor puis 
his hand on his shoulder. 



ACT IT MAGIC 43 

Doctor. Gentlemen, I think you are both for- 
getting yourselves. 

CoNJUEER. Perhaps, [ffis tone sinks suddenly to 
tveariness.] I ask pardon for what I said. It was 
certainly in excess of the young gentleman's deserts. 
[Sighs.] I sometimes rather wish I could forget 
myself. 

Morris. [Sullenly, after a pause.] Well, the enter- 
tainment's coming on; and you English don't like 
a scene. I reckon I'll have to bury the blamed old 
liatchet too. 

Doctor. [With a certain dignity, his social type 
shining through his profession,] Mr. Carleon, you 
will forgive an old man, who knew your father well, 
if he doubts whether you are doing yourself justice 
in treating yourself as an American Indian, merely 
because you have lived in America. In my old 
friend Huxley's time we of the middle classes dis- 
believed in reason and all sorts of things. But we 
did believe in good manners. It is a pity if the 
aristocracy can't. I don't like to hear you say you 
are a savage and have buried a tomahawk. I would 
rather hear you say, as your Irish ancestors would 
have said, that you have sheathed your sword with 
the dignity proper to a gentleman. 

Morris. Very well. I've sheathed my sword with 
the dignity proper to a gentleman. 

Conjurer. And I have sheathed my sword with the 
dignity proper to a conjurer. 

Morris. How does the conjurer sheath a sword ? 



44 M A G T C ACT ii 

Conjurer. Swallows it. 

Doctor. Then we all agree there shall be no quarrel. 

Smith. May I say a word ? I have a great dislike 
of a quarrel, for a reason quite beyond my duty to 
my cloth. 

Morris. And what is that ? 

Smith. I object to a quarrel because it always 
interrupts an argument. May I bring you back for 
a moment to the argument ? You were saying that 
these modern conjuring tricks are simply the old 
miracles when they have once been found out. But 
surely another view is possible. When we speak of 
things being sham, we generally mean that they are 
imitations of things that are genuine. Take that 
Reynolds over there of the Duke's great-grand- 
father. [Pomts to a picture on the wall.] If I were to 
say it was a copy . . , 

I".a.oRKis. Wal, the Duke's real amiable ; but I 
reckon you'd find what you call the interruption of an 
argument. 

Smith. Well, suppose I did say so, you w^ouldn't 
take it as meaning that Sir Joshua Reynolds never 
lived. Why should sham miracles prove to us that 
real Saints and Prophets never lived. There may 
be sham magic and real magic also. 

[The Conjurer raises his head and listens tvith 
a strange air of intentness. 

Smith. There may be turnip ghosts precisely 
because there are real ghosts. There may be 
theatrical fairies precisely because there are real 



ACT TT MAGI C 45 

fairies. You do not abolish the Bank of England 
by pointing to a forged bank-note. 

Morris. I hope the Professor enjoys being called 
a forged bank-note. 

Conjurer. Almost as much as being called the 
Prospectus of some American Companies. 

Doctor. Gentlemen ! Gentlemen ! 

Conjurer. I am sorry. 

Morris. Wal, let's have the argument first, then 
I guess we can have the quarrel afterwards. I'll 
clean this house of some encumbrances. See here, 
Mr. Smith, I'm not putting anything on your real 
miracle notion. I say, and Science says, that there's 
a cause for everything. Science will find out that 
cause, and sooner or later your old miracle Avill look 
mighty mean. Sooner or later Science will botanize 
a bit on your turnip ghosts ; and make you look 
turnips yourselves for having taken any, I say . . . 

Doctor. [In a loio voice to Smith.] I don't like this 
peaceful argument of yours. The boy is getting 
much too excited. 

Morris. You say old man Reynolds lived; and 
Science don't say no. [Ee turns excitedly to the picture.] 
But I guess he's dead now ; and you'll no more raise 
your Saints and Prophets from the dead than you'll 
raise the Duke's great-grandfather to dance on that 
wall. 

[The picture begins to sway slightly to and fro 
on the wall. 

Doctor. Why, the picture is moving ! 



46 MAGIC ACT II 

Morris. [Twning furiously on the Oonjvrer.] You 
were in the room before us. Do you reckon that 
will take us in ? You can do all that with wires. 

Conjurer. [Motionless and tvithout looking wp from 
the table.] Yes, I could do all that with wires. 

Morris. And you reckoned I shouldn't know. 
[Laughs with a high avowing laugh.] That's how the 
derned dirty Spiritualists do all their tricks. They 
say they can make the furniture move of itself. If 
it does move they move it ; and we mean to know 
how. [A chair falls over with a slight crash. 

[Monnis almost stag ge7's and momentarily fights 
for breath and words. 

Morris. Y^ou . . . why . . . that . . . every one 
knows that ... a sliding plank. It can be done with 
a sliding plank. 

Conjurer. [Without looking up.] Yes. It can be 
done with a sliding plank. 

[The Doctor draios nearer to Morris, who 
faces about, addressing him passionately. 
Morris. You were right on the spot, Doc, when 
you talked about that red lamp of yours. That red 
lamp is the light of science that will put out all the 
lanterns of your turnip ghosts. It's a consuming fire, 
Doctor, but it is the red light of the morning. [Points 
at it in exalted oithusiasm.] Your priests can no more 
stop that light from shining or change its colour and 
its radiance than Joshua could stop the sun and moon. 
[Laughs savagely.] Why, a real fairy in an elfin cloak 



ACT II MAGIC 47 

strayed too near the lamp an hour or two ago ; and it 
turned him into a common society clown with a white 
tie. 

[The lamp at the end of the garden turns blue. 
They all look at it in silence. 
Morris. [Sjylitting the silence on a high unnatural 
note.] Wait a bit ! Wait a bit ! I've got you ! I'll 
have you ! . . . [He strides wildly up and down the room, 
biting his finger.] You put a wire ... no, that can't 
be it . . . 

Doctor. [Speaking to him soothingly,] Well, well, 
just at this moment we need not inquire 

Morris. [Turning on him furiously,] You call 
yourself a man of science, and you dare to tell me not 
to inquire ! 

Smith. We only mean that for the moment you 
might let it alone. 

Morris. [Violently.] ^o. Priest, I will not let it 
alone. [Pacing the room again.] Could it be done 
with mirrors? [He clasps his hroic] You have a 
mirror . . . [Suddenly, with a shout.] I've got it ! 
I've got it! Mixture of lights! Why not? If 
you throw a green light on a red light. . 

[Sudden silence. 

Smith. [Quietly to the Doctor.] You don't get blue. 

Doctor. [Stepping across to the Conjurer.] If you 
have done this trick, for God's sake undo it. 

[After a silence, the light turns red again. 

Morris. [Dashing suddenly to the glass doors and 



48 MAGIC ACT II 

examining them.] It's tho glass ! You've been doing 
something to the glass ! 

[He stops suddenly and thei'e is a long silence. 
Conjurer. [Still without moving,] I don't think 
you will find anything wrong with the glass. 

Morris. [Bursting open the glass doors with a crash ?^ 
Then I'll find out what's wrong with the lamp. 

[Disappears hito the garden. 
Doctor. It is still a wet night, I am afraid. 
Smith. Yes. And somebody else will be wander- 
ing about the garden now. 

[Through the broken glass doors Mo RUis can he 
seen marching backivards aud forwards 
with svnfter and swifter steps. 
Smith. I suppose in this case the Celtic twilight 
will not get on the chest. 

Doctor. Oh, if it were only the chest ! 

Enter Patricia. 

Patricia. Where is my brother ? 

[There is an embarrassed silence, in which the 
Conjurer answers. 

Conjurer. I am afraid he is walking about in 
Fairyland. 

Patricia. But he mustn't go out on a night like 
this ; it's very dangerous ! 

Conjurer. Yes, it is very dangerous. He might 
meet a fairy. 

Patricia. What do you mean ? 

Conjurer. You went out in this norl of weiither 



ACT II MAGIC 49 

and you met this sort of fairy, and so far it has only 
brought you sorrow. 

Patricia. I am going out to find my brother. 

[^She goes out into the garden through the open 
doors. 

Smith. [After a sile^ice, very suddenly.] What is 
that noise ? She is not singing those songs to him, is 
she? 

Conjurer. No. He does not understand the lan- 
guage of the elves. 

Smith. But what are all those cries and gasps I 
hear ? 

Conjurer. The normal noises, I believe, of a quiet 
business man. 

Doctor. Sir, I can understand your being bitter, 
for I admit you have been uncivilly received ; but to 
speak like that just now . . . 

[Patricia reappears at the garden doors, very 
pale. 
Patricia. Can I speak to the Doctor ? 
Doctor. My dear lady, certainly. Shall I fetch 
the Duke ? 

Patricia. I would prefer the Doctor, 
Smith. Can I be of any use ? 
Patricia. I only want the Doctor. 

\8he goes out again., followed hy Dr. Grim- 
THORPE. The others look at each other. 

Smith. [Quietly.] That last was a wonderful trick 
of yours. 

D 



50 MAGIC ACT II 

Conjurer. Thank you. I suppose you mean it 
was the only one you didn't see through. 

Smith. Something of the kind, I confess. Your 
last trick was the best trick I have ever seen. It 
is so good that I wish you had not done it. 
Conjurer. And so do I. 

Smith. How do you mean ? Do you wish you had 
never been a conjurer ? 

Conjurer. I wish I had never been born. 

[£Jxit Conjurer. 
[A silence. The Doctor enters^ very grave. 
Doctor. It is all right so far. We have brought 
him back. 

Smith. [Dravnng near to him.] You told me there 
was mental trouble with the girl. 

Doctor. [Loohi7ig at him steadily.'] No. I told you 
there was mental trouble in the family. 

Smith. [After a silence.] Where is Mr. Morris 
Carleon ? 

Doctor. I have got him into bed in the next room. 
His sister is looking after him. 

Smith. His sister ! Oh, then do you believe in 
fairies ? 

Doctor. Believe in fairies ? What do you mean ? 
Smith. At least you put the person who does 
believe in them in charge of the person who doesn't. 
Doctor. Well, I suppose I do. 
Smith. You don't think she'll keep him awake all 
night with fairy tales ? 
Doctor. Certainly not. 



ACT II 



MAGIC 51 



Smith. You don't think she'll throw the medicine- 
bottle out of window and administer — er — a dew- 
drop, or anything of that sort ? Or a four-leaved 
clover, say ? 

Doctor. No ; of course not. 

Smith. I only ask because you scientific men are 
a little hard on us clergymen. You don't believe in 
a priesthood ; but you'll admit I'm more really a 
priest than this conjurer is really a magician. 
You've been talking a lot about the Bible and the 
Higher Criticism. But even by the Higher Criticism 
the Bible is older than the language of the elves — 
which was, as far as I can make out, invented this 
afternoon. But Miss Carleon believed in the wizard. 
Miss Carleon believed in the language of the elves. 
And you put her in charge of an invalid without a 
flicker of doubt : because you trust women. 

Doctor. [Very seriously/.] Yes, I trust women. 

Smith. You trust a woman with the practical 
issues of life and death, through sleepless hours when 
a shaking hand or an extra grain would kill. 

Doctor. Yes. 

Smith. But if the woman gets up to go to early 
service at my church, you call her weak-minded and 
say that nobody but women can believe in religion. 

Doctor. I should never call this woman weak- 
minded — no, by God, not even if she went to 
church. 

Smith. Yet there are many as strong-minded who 
believe passionately in going to church. 



52 MAGIC ACT II 

Doctor, Weren't there as many who believed 
passionately in Apollo ? 

Smith. And what harm came of believing in 
Apollo ? And what a mass of harm may have come 
of not believing in Apollo ? Does it never strike you 
that doubt can be a madness, as well be faith ? That 
asking questions may be a disease, as well as pro- 
claiming doctrines ? You talk of religious mania ! Is 
there no such thing as irreligious mania ? Is there no 
such thing in the house at this moment ? 

Doctor. Then you think no one should question at 
all. 

Smith. [With passion, pointing to the next ?'oow.] I 
think that is what comes of questioning ! Why can't 
you leave the universe alone and let it mean what it 
likes ? Why shouldn't the thunder be Jupiter ? 
More men have made themselves silly by wondering 
what the devil it was if it wasn't Jupiter. 

Doctor. [Looking at hiin.] Do you believe in your 
own religion ? 

Smith. [Retu^^ning the look equally steadili/.] Sup- 
pose I don't : I should still be a fool to question it. 
The child who doubts about Santa Glaus has insomnia. 
The child who believes has a good night's rest. 

Doctor. You are a Pragmatist. 

Enter Duke, ahsent-mindedly. 

Smith. That is what the lawyers call vulgar abuse. 
But I do appeal to practise. Here is a family over 
which you tell me a mental calamity hovers. Here 



ACT II MAGIC 53 

is the boy who questions everything and a girl who 
can believe anything. Upon which has the curse 
fallen ? 

Duke. Talking about the Pragmatists. I'm gla4 
to hear . . . Ah, very forward movement ! I sup- 
pose Roosevelt now . . . [Siletice.] Well, we move 
you know, we move ! First there w^as the Missing 
Link. [Silence.] No ! First there was Protoplasm — 
and then there was the Missing Link ; and Magna 
Carta and so on. [Sileiwe.] Why, look at the Insur- 
ance Act ! 

Doctor. I would rather not. 

Duke. [Wagging a playful Jinger at him.] Ah, pre- 
judice, prejudice ! You doctors, you know ! Well, 
I never had any myself. [Silence. 

Doctor. [Breaking the silence in uniosual exas2)e7'a- 
tion.] Any what ? 

Duke. [Firmly.] Never had any Marconis my- 
self. Wouldn't touch 'em. [Silence.] Well, I must 
speak to Hastings. [Exit Duke, aimlessly. 

Doctor. [Exploding.] Well, of all the . . . [Tiiriis 
to Smith.] You asked me just now which member of 
the family had inherited the family madness. 

Smith. Yes ; I did. 

Doctor. [In a low, emphatic voice.] On my living 
soul, I believe it must be the Duke. 

curtain 



ACT III 

Room partly darkened, a table with a lain]} on it, and 
an empty chair. From room next door faint and 
occasional sounds of the tossing or talking of the 
invalid. 

Enter Doctor Grimthorpe with a rather careworn air, 
and a medicine bottle in his hand. He puts it on 
the table, and sits down in the chair as if keeping a 
vigil. 

Enter Conjurer, carrying his hag, and cloaked for 
departure. As he crosses the room the Doctor 
rises and calls after him. 

Doctor. Forgive me, but may I detain you for one 
moment ? I suppose you are aware that — [he hesi- 
tates] that there have been rather grave developments 
in the case of illness which happened after your per- 
formance. I would not say, of course, because of 
your performance. 

Conjurer. Thank you. 

Doctor. [Slightly encouraged, hut speaking very 

65 



56 MAGIC ACT III 

carefally.'] Nevertheless, mental excitement is neces- 
sarily an element of importance in physiological 
troubles, and your triumphs this evening were really 
so extraordinary that I cannot pretend to dismiss 
them from my patient's case. He is at present in a 
state somewhat analogous to delirium, but in which 
he can still partially ask and answer questions. The 
question he continually asks is how you managed to 
do your last trick. 

Conjurer. Ah ! My last trick ! 

Doctor. Now I was wondering whether we could 
make any arrangement which would be fair to you in 
the matter. Would it be possible for you to give me 
in confidence the means of satisfying this — this fixed 
idea he seems to have got. \^He hesitates again, and 
picks his ivords more slowly.] This special condition of 
semi-delirious disputation is a rare one, and con- 
nected in my experience with rather unfortunate 
cases. 

Conjurer. [Looking at him steadily.] Do you mean 
he is going mad ? 

Doctor. [Rathe7' taken aback for the first time.] 
Really, you ask me an unfair question. I could not 
explain the fine shades of these things to a layman. 
And even if — if what you suggest were so, I should 
have to regard it as a professional secret. 

Conjurer. [Still looking at him.] And don't you 
think you ask me a rather unfair question, Dr. 
Grimthorpe ? If yours is a professional secret, is not 
mine a professional secret too ? If you maj^ hide 



ACT Til MAGIC 57 

truth from the world, why mny not I ? You don't 
tell your tricks. I don't tell my tricks. 

Doctor. [With some heat.l Ours are not tricks. 

Conjurer. [Reflectively.'] Ah, no one can be sure of 
that till the tricks are told. 

Doctor. But the public can see a doctor's cures as 
plain as . . . 

Conjurer. Yes. As plain as they saw the red lamp 
over his door this evening. 

Doctor. [After a pause.] Your secret, of course, 
would be strictly kept by every one involved. 

Conjurer. Oh, of course. People in delirium 
always keep secrets strictly. 

Doctor. No one sees the patient but his sister and 
myself. 

Conjurer. [Starts slightly.] Yes, his sister. Is she 

very anxious? 

Doctor. [In a lower voice.] What would you 
suppose ? 

[Conjurer throws himself into the chair, his 

cloak slipping hack from his evening dress. 

He ruminates for a short space and then 

speaks. 

Conjurer. Doctor, there are about a thousand 

reasons why I should not tell you how I really did 

that trick. But one will suffice, because it is the 

most practical of all. 

Doctor. Well ? And why shouldn't you tell me ? 
Conjurer. Because you wouldn't believe me if I 
did. 



58 MAGIC ACT III 

[A silence, the Doctor looking at him curiously. 

[^Enter the Duke with 'papers in his hand. 

His usual gaiety of manner has a rather 

forced air, owing to the fact that hy some 

vague sich-room associations he tvaUcs as if 

on tij^-toe and begins to speak in a sort of 

loud or shrill whisper. This he fortunately 

forgets and falls into his more natural voice, 

Duke. [To Conjurer.] So very kind of you to have 
waited, Professor. I expect Dr. Grimthorpe has 
explained the little difficulty we are in much better 
than I could. Nothing like the medical mind for a 
scientific statement. [Hazily.]^ Look at Ibsen. 

[Silence. 

Doctor. Of course the Professor feels considerable 
reluctance in the matter. He points out that his 
secrets are an essential part of his profession. 

Duke. Of course, of course. Tricks of the trade, 
eh ? Very proper, of course. Quite a case of noblesse 
oblige. [Silence.^ But I dare say we shall be able to 
find a way out of the matter. [He turns to the Con- 
jurer.] Now, my dear sir, I hope you will not be 
off'ended if I say that this ought to be a business 
matter. We are asking you for a piece of your pro- 
fessional work and knowledge, and if I may have the 
pleasure of writing 5"0u a cheque . . . 

Conjurer. I thank your Grace, I have already 
received my cheque from your secretary. You will 
find it on the counterfoil just after the cheque you 



ACT in 



MAGIC 59 



so kindly gave to the Society for the Suppression of 
Conjuring. 

Duke. Now I don't want you to take it in that 
way. I w^ant you to take it in a broader way. 
Free, you know. [With an expansive gesture.] Modern 
and all that ! Wonderful man, Bernard Shaw ! 

[Silence. 

Doctor. [With a slight cough, resuming.] If you 
feel any delicacy the payment need not be made 
merely to you. I quite respect your feelings in the 
matter, 

Duke. [Approvingli/.] Quite so, quite so. Haven't 
you got a Cause or something ? Everybody has a 
cause now, you know. Conjurers' widows or some- 
thing of that kind. 

ConJurer. [With restraint.] No ; I have no widows. 

Duke. Then something like a pension or annuity 
for any widows you may — er — procure. [Gaily 
opening his cheque-hook and talking slang to show 
tJiere is no ill-feeling.] Come, let me call it a couple 
of thou. 

[The Conjurer takes the cheque and looks at 
it in a grave and douhtftd icay. As he 
does so the Rector comes slowly into the 
room. 

Conjurer. You would really be willing to pay a 
sum like this to know the way I did that trick ? 

Duke. I would willingly pay much more. 

Doctor. I think I explained to you that the case 
is serious. 



60 MAGIC ACT ITT 

CoNJUREB. [More and more thoughtful] You would 
pay much more . . . [S^iddenly.] But suppose I tell 
you the secret and you find there's nothing in it ? 

Doctor. You mean that it's really quite simple ? 
Why, I should say that that would be the best thing 
that could possibly happen. A little healthy laughter 
is the best possible thing for convalescence. 

Conjurer. [Still looking gloomily at the cheque.] 
I do not think you will laugh. 

Duke. [Reasoning genially.] But as you say it is 
something quite simple. 

Conjurer. It is the simplest thing there is in the 
world. That is why you will not laugh. 

Doctor. [Almost nervously.] Why, what do you 
mean ? What shall we do ? 

Conjurer. [Gravely.] You will disbelieve it. 

Doctor. And why ? 

Conjurer. Because it is so simple. [He springs sud- 
denly to his feet, the cheque still in his hand.] You ask 
me how I really did the last trick. I will tell you 
how I did the last trick. I did it by magic. 

[The Duke and Doctor stare at him motion- 
less ; hut the Rev. Smith starts and takes 
a step nearer the table. The Conjurer 
pulls his cloak round his shoidders. This 
gesture, as of departure, brings the Doctor 
to his feet. 

Doctor. [Astonished and angry.] Do you really 
mean that you take the cheque and then tell us it was 
only magic ? 



ACT III MAGIC 61 

CoNJUKER. [Ptdling the cheque to 2neces.] I tear th© 
cheque, and I tell you it was only magic. 

Doctor. [With violent sincerity.] But hang it all, 
there's no such thing. 

Conjurer. Yes there is. I wish to God I did not 
know that there is. 

Duke. [Rising also.] Why, really, magic . . . 
Conjurer. [Contemptuously.] Yes, your Grace, one 
of those larger laws you were telling us about. 

[Ee buttons his cloak up at his throat and takes 
up his hag. As he does so the Rev. Smith 
steps betiveen him and the door and stojjs 
him for a moment. 
Smith. [In a low voice.] One moment, sir. 
Conjurer. What do you want ? 
Smith, I want to apologize to you. I mean on 
behalf of the company. I think it was wrong to offer 
you money. I think it was more wrong to mystify 
you with medical language and call the thing delirium. 
I have more respect for conjurer's patter than for 
doctor's patter. They are both meant to stupify ; but 
yours only to stupify for a moment. Now I put it to 
you in plain words and on plain human Christian 
grounds. Here is a poor boy who may be going mad. 
Suppose you had a son in such a position, would you 
not expect people to tell you the whole truth if it 
could help you ? 

Conjurer. Yes. And I have told you the whole 
truth. Go and find out if it helps you. 

[Turns again to go, but more irresolutely. 



62 MAGIC ACT in 

Smith. You know quite well it will not help us. 

Conjurer. Why not ? 

Smith. You know quite well why not. You are an 
honest man ; and you have said it yourself. Because 
he would not believe it. 

Conjurer, [With a sort of fury.] Well, does anybody 
believe it ? Do you believe it ? 

Smith. [With great rest^^aint.'] Your question is 
quite fair. Come, let us sit down and talk about it. 
Let me take your cloak. 

Conjurer. I will take ojBT my cloak when you take 
off your coat. 

Smith. [Smiling,] AVhy? Do you want me to fight? 

Conjurer. [Violently.] I want you to be martyred. 
I want you to hear witness to your own creed. I say 
these things are supernatural. I say this was done 
by a spirit. The doctor does not believe me. He is 
an agnostic ; and he knows everything. The Duke 
does not believe me ; he cannot believe anything so 
plain as a miracle. But what the devil are you for, if 
you don't believe in a miracle ? What does your coat 
mean, if it doesn't mean that there is such a thing as 
the supernatural? What does your cursed collar 
mean if it doesn't mean that there is such a thing as 
a spirit ? [Exasperated.] Why the devil do you dress 
up like that if you don't believe in it ? [With violence.] 
Or perhaps you don't believe in devils? 

Smith. I believe . . . [After a pause.] I wish I 
could believe. 

Conjurer. Yes. I wish I could disbelieve. 



ACT III MAGIC 63 

[Enter Patricia pale and in the slight negligee 
of the amateur nurse. 

Patricia. May I speak to the conjurer ? 

Smith. [Hastening forward.'] You want the doctor ? 

Patricia. No, the conjurer. 

Doctor. Are there any developments ? 

Patricia. I only want to speak to the conjurer. 

[They all ivithdraiv, either at the garde^i or the 
other doors. Patricia walks up to Con- 
jurer. 

Patricia. You must tell me how you did the trick. 
You will. I know you will. 0, I know my poor 
brother was rude to you. He's rude to everybody ! 
[Breaks down.] But he's such a little, little boy ! 

Conjurer. I suppose you knoAv there are things 
men never tell to women. They are too horrible. 

Patricia. Yes. And there are things women 
never tell to men. They also are too horrible. I am 
here to hear them all. 

Conjurer. Do you really mean I may say anything 
I like ? However dark it is ? However dreadful it 
is ? However damnable it is ? 

Patricia. I have gone through too much to be 
terrified now. Tell me the very worst. 

Conjurer. I will tell you the very worst. I fell in 
love with you when I first saw you. 

[Sits down and crosses his legs. 

Patricia. [Drawing hack.] You told me I looked 
like a child and ... 



64 MAGIC ACT m 

Conjurer. I told a lie. 

Patricia. ; this is terrible. 

Conjurer. I was in love, I took an opportunity. 
You believed quite simply that I was a magician? 
but I . . . 

Patricia. It is terrible. It is terrible. I never 
believed you were a magician. 

Conjurer. [Astotinded.] Never believed I was a 
magician . . . ! 

Patricia. I always knew you were a man. 

Conjurer. [Doiiig ivhatever passionate things people 
do on the stage.] I am a man. And you are a woman. 
And all the elves have gone to elfland, and all the 
devils to hell. And you and I will walk out of this 
great vulgar house and be married. . . . Every one is 
crazy in this house to-night, I think. What am I say- 
ing? As if you could marry me/ my God ! 

Patricia. This is the first time you have failed in 
courage. 

Conjurer. What do you mean ? 

Patricia. I mean to draw your attention to the 
fact that you have recently made an offer, I accept 
it. 

Conjurer. Oh, it's nonsense, it's nonsense. How 
can a man marry an archangel, let alone a lady. My 
mother was a lady and she married a dying fiddler 
who tramped the roads ; and the mixture plays the 
cat and banjo with my body and soul. I can see my 
mother now cooking food in dirtier and dirtier lodg- 
ings, darning socks with weaker and weaker eyes 



ACT 111 MAGIC 65 

when she might have worn pearls by consenting to- 
be a rational person. 

Patricia. And she might have grown pearls, by- 
consenting to be an oyster. 

Conjurer. [Se7nously.] There was little pleasure 
in her life. 

Patricia. There is little, a very little, in every- 
body's. The question is, what kind ? We can't turn 
life into a pleasure. But we can choose such pleasures 
as are worthy of us and our immortal souls. Your 
mother chose and I have chosen. 

Conjurer. [Staring.] Immortal souls ! . . . And I 
suppose if I knelt down to worship you, you and 
every one else would laugh. 

Patricia. [With a smile of perversity/.] Well, I 
think this is a more comfortable way. [She sits down 
suddenly beside him in a sort of domestic umy and 
goes on talking,] Yes. I'll do everything your 
mother did, not so well, of course ; I'll darn that 
conjurer's hat — does one darn hats ? — and cook 
the conjurer's dinner. By the way, what is a con- 
jurer's dinner? There's always the goldfish, of 
course. . . . 

Conjurer. [With a groan.] Carrots. 

Patricia. And, of course, now I come to think 
of it, you can always take rabbits out of the hat. 
Why, what a cheap life it must be ! How do 
you cook rabbits ? The Duke is always talking 
about poached rabbits. Really, we shall be as happy 
as is good for us. We'll have confidence in each 

E 



86 MAGIC ACT III 

other at least, and no secrets. I insist on knowing 
all the tricks. 

Conjurer. I don't think I know whether I'm on 
my head or my heels. 

Patricia. And now, as we're going to be so confi- 
dential and comfortable, you'll just tell me the real, 
practical, tricky little way you did that last trick. 

Conjurer. [Rising^ rigid with horror.^ How I did 
that trick? I did it by devils. [Turning furiously on 
Patricia.] You could believe in fairies. Can't you 
believe in devils ? 

Patricia. [Seriously.^ No, I can't believe in devils. 

doNJURER. Well, this room is full of them. 

Patricia. What does it all mean ? 

Conjurer. It only means that I have done what 
■'many men have done ; but few, I think, have thriven 
by. [He sits down and talks thoughtfully.] I told you 
I had mixed with many queer sets of people. Among 
others, I mixed with those who pretend, truly and 
falsely, to do our tricks by the aid of spirits. I 
dabbled a little in table-rapping and table-turning. 
JBut I soon had reason to give it up. 

Patricia. Why did you give it up ? 

Conjurer. It began by giving me headaches. And 
1 found that every morning after a Spiritualist seance 
I had a queer feeling of lowness and degradation, of 
having been soiled ; much like the feeling, I suppose, 
that people have the morning after they have been 
drunk. But I happen to have what people call a 
strong head ; and I have never been really drunk. 



ACT III MAGIC 67 

Patricia. I am glad of that. 

Conjurer. It hasn't been for want of trying. But 
it wasn't long before the spirits with whom I had 
been playing at table-turning, did what I think they 
generally do at the end of all such table-turning. 

Patricia. What did they do ? 

Conjurer. They ;turned the tables. They turned 
the tables upon me. I don't wonder at your believing 
in fairies. As long as these things were my servants 
they seemed . to me like fairies. When they tried to 
be my masters. ... I found they were not fairies. 
I found the spirits with whom I at least had come in 
contact were evil . . . awfully, unnaturally evil. 

Patricia. Did they say so? 

Conjurer. Don't talk of what they said. I was 
a loose fellow, but I had not fallen so low as such 
things. I resisted them ; and after a pretty bad 
time, psychologically speaking, I cut the connexion. 
But they were always tempting me to use the super- 
natural power I had got from them. It was not very 
great, but it was enough to move things about, to 
alter lights and so on. I don't know whether you 
realize that it's rather a strain on a man to drink bad 
coffee at a coffee-stall when he knows he has just 
enough magic in him to make a bottle of champagne 
walk out of an empty shop. 

Patricia. I think you behaved very well. 

Conjurer. [Bitterhj.] And when I fell at last it 
was for nothing half so clean and Christian as 
champagne. In black blind pride and anger and all 



68 MAGIC ACT III 

kinds of heathenry, because of the impudence of a 
schoolboy, I called on the friends and they obeyed. 

Patricia. [^Touches his arm.] Poor fellow ! 

Conjurer. Your goodness is the only goodness 
that never goes wrong. 

Patricia. And what are we to do with Morris ? 
I — I believe you now, my dear. But he — he will 
never believe. 

Conjurer. There is no bigot like the atheist.' I 
must think. 

[Walks towards the garden ivindows. The 
other men reappear to arrest his movement. 

Doctor. Where are you going ? 
Conjurer. I am going to ask the God whose 
enemies I have served if I am still worthy to save a 
child. 

[Exit into garden. He paces up and down 
exactly as Morris has done. As he does 
so, Patricia slowly goes out ; and a long 
silence follows J during which the remaining 
men stir and stamp very restlessly. The 
darkness increases. It is long he/ore any- 
one speaks. 

Doctor. [Abruptly.] Remarkable man [tliat|[con- 
jurer. Clever man. Curious man. Very curious 
man. A kind of man, you know . . . Lord bless us ! 
What's that ? 

Duke. What's what, eh ? What's what ? 

Doctor. I swear I heard a footstep. 



ACT III MAGIC 69 

Enter Hastings with papers. 

Duke. Why, Hastings — Hastings — we thought 
you were a ghost. You must be — er — looking white 
or something. 

Hastings. I have brought back the answer of the 
Anti- Vegetarians ... I mean the Vegetarians. 

\^Drops one or tioo papers, 

Duke. Why, Hastings, you are looking white. 

Hastings. I ask your Grace's pardon. I had a 
slight shock on entering the room. 

Doctor. A shock ? What shock ? 

Hastings. It is the first time, I think, that your 
Grace's work has been disturbed by any private 
feelings of mine. I shall not trouble j'^our Grace 
with them. It will not occur again. 

[Exit Hastings. 

Duke. What an extraordinary fellow. I wonder 
if . . . [Suddenly stops speaking. 

Doctor. [After a long silence, in a low voice to 
Smith.] How do you feel ? 

Smith. I feel I must have a window shut or I 
must have it open, and I don't know which it is. 

[Another long silence. 

Smith. [Crying outjuddenly in the dark.] In God's 
name, go ! 

Doctor. [Jumping^up rather in a tremble.] Really, 
sir, I am not used to being spoken to . . . 

Smith. It was not you whom I told to go. 



70 MAGIC ACT III 

Doctor. No. [Pause.] But I think I will go. This 
room is simply horrible. 

[He marches towards the door, 

Duke. [Jumping up and hustling about, altering 
cards, paper's, etc., on tables.] Room horrible ? Room 
horrible? No, no, no. [Begins to run quicker round 
the room, flapping his hands like fins.] Only a little 
crowded. A little crowded. And I don't seem to 
know all the people. "We can't like everybody. 
These large at-homes . . . [Tumbles on to a chair. 

Conjurer. [R€appearing at the garden doors.] Go 
back to hell from which I called you. It is the last 
order I shall give. 

Doctor. [Rising rather shakily.] And what are 
you going to do ? 

Conjurer. I am going to tell that poor little lad a 
lie. I have found in the garden what he did not find 
in the garden. I have managed to think of a natural 
explanation of that trick. 

Doctor. [Warmly moved.] I think you are some- 
thing like a great man. Can I take your explanation 
to him now ? 

Conjurer. [Grimly.] No thank you. I will take 
it myself. [Exit into the other room. 

Duke. [Uneasily.] We all felt devilish queer just 
now. "Wonderful things there are in the world. 
[After a pause.] I suppose it's all electricity. 

[Silence as usual. 

Smith. I think there has been more than elec- 
tricity in all this. 



ACT Jii MAGIC 71 

Enter Patricia, still pcUe, hut i^adiant. 

Patricia. Oh, Morris is ever so much better ! The 
conjurer has told him such a good story of how the 
trick was done. 

^71^67* Conjurer. 

Duke. Professor, we owe you a thousand thanks ! 

Doctor. Really, you have doubled your claim to 
originality ! 

Smith. It is mucli more marvellous to explain a 
miracle than to work a miracle. What was your 
explanation, by the way ? 

Conjurer. I shall not tell you. 

Smith. [Starting.] Indeed? Why not? 

Conjurer. Because God and the demons and that 
Immortal Mystery that you deny has been in this 
room to-night. Because you know it has been here. 
Because you have felt it here. Because you know 
the spirits as well as I do and fear them as much as 
I do. » 

Smith. Well? 

Conjurer. Because all this wovdd not avail. If I 
told you the lie I told Morris Carleon about how I 
did that trick. . . . 

Smith. Well? 

Conjurer. You would believe it as he believed it. 
You cannot think [poi7iting to the lamp] how that 
trick could be done naturally. I alone found out 
how it could be done — after I had done it by magic. 
But if I tell you a natural way of doing it. . . . 



NOV SD 1^13 

72 MAGIC ACT III 

Smith. Well? . . . 

Conjurer. Half an hour after I have left this 
house you will be all saying how it was done. 

[Conjurer buttons up his cloak and advances 
to Patricia. 

Conjurer. Good-bye. 

Patricia. I shall not say good-bye. 

Conjurer. You are great as well as good. But a 
saint can be a temptress as well as a sinner. I put 
my honour in your hands . . . oh, yes, I have a little 
left. We began with a fairy tale. Have I any right 
to take advantage of that fairy tale ? Has not that 
fairy tale really and truly come to an end ? 

Patricia. Yes. That fairy tale has really and 
truly come to an end. [Looks at him a little in the old 
tnystical manner.^ It is very ha. X for a fairy tale to 
come to an end. If you leave it alone it lingers ever- 
lastingly. Our fairy tale has come to an end in the 
only way a fairy tale can come to an end. The only 
way a fairy tale can leave oj5' being a fairy tale. 

Conjurer. I don't understand you. 

Patricia. It has come true. 



curtain 



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The COMPLETE DRAMATIC WORKS 0/ 

ST. JOHN HANKIN 

fF//Afl« INTRODUCTION /^yJOHN DRINKWATER 

LIMITED EDITION DE LUXE IN THREE VOLUMES 

CONTENTS 
VOLUME ONE 

Critical and Biographical Introduction 
The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
The Return of the Prodigal 

VOLUME TWO 

The Charity that Began at Home 
The Cassilis Engagement 
The Last of the De Mullins 

VOLUME THREE 

The Constant Lover 
The Burglar that Failed 
Essays : On Happy Endings 

Puritanism and the English Stage 

Bernard Shaw as Critic 

An Art Theatre for London 

The Collected Plays of Oscar Wilde 

The Need for an Endowed Theatre 

This edition^ limited to 950 sets for sale in 
England and America^ is printed on a specially 
manufactured pure rag paper, and hound in 
lemon yellow buckram with gilt sides and gilt top. 
Each volume has a frontispiece in photogravure. 
Price 2 OS. net the set. 



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SPECTATOR 
'* Admirers of St. John Hankin's work will 
welcome this beautifully produced edition of his 
plays and essays upon the drama." 

TIMES 
"As we read through these collected plays 
two things soon become clear — that Hankin had 
a very keen ' sense of the theatre,' and that he 
was more of a pioneer than we had supposed 
. . . Mr. John Drinkwater contributes a sound 
and interesting introduction to this edition. . . . 
This delicate sense of form that animates every 
sentence of his dialogue and every play in his 
collected drama, until, whatever its faults, each 
play is flashing with the changing lights of the 
captured comic spirit." 

SATURDAY REVIEW 
" This is a really beautiful edition of Hankin, 
and it is admirably introduced by Mr. John 
Drinkwater. ... If you be unacquainted with 
Hankin you will have the delight of reading his 
plays for the first time. If you already know 
the plays, you will have the delight of possess- 
ing them in a manner worthy of their matter." 
DAILY TELEGRAPH 
'* This admirable edition." 

OBSERVER 
" Every student of the theatre will welcome 
this definite edition of the dramatic writing of 
the late Mr. St. John Hankin. His quiet dis- 
tinguished work, with its wit and its clarity of 
phrasing, both in his actual plays and in the 
essays on the theatre (they are, we are glad to 



SOME PRESS OPINIONS— continued 

say, included in the edition) was of far greater 
value than appeared perhaps to many at the 
time. The edition, on the general excellence of 
which we most heartily congratulate the pub- 
lisher, is a worthy memorial of the man of 
letters Mr. Hankin essentially was. The intro- 
duction, too, by Mr. John Drinkwater, is com- 
petent and clear." 

ATHENJEUM 

" Here, with all the advantages of clear, bold 
print and fine paper, is the definitive edition of 
St. John Hankin's dramatic works. . . . Viewed 
as a whole what a mass of entertainment they 
provide, what observation they reveal, what 
gratitude they merit ! Members of the pro- 
fessional, business, and country-house classes 
file before us in procession, and each of them is 
individualized by attrition with his or her 
group. All the time we are learning to know 
them we are given opportunities for laughter. 
They are more communicative than their 
counterparts in real life. It is one of the 
features of St. John Hankin's dialogue that it 
is ideally correct, but conventionally exagge- 
rated ; that his characters, like many of Mr. 
Shaw's, utter their secret thoughts aloud. But 
if they are more self-revealing than men and 
women usually are, their lack of reticence can, 
as a rule, be artistically defended. Meantime, 
about all their conversation there is the stamp 
of style and personality, which, as Mr. Drink- 
water suggests, may help them to the larger au- 
dience which the author deserved in his lifetime." 



The COMPLETE DRAMATIC WORKS 0/ 

GERHART HAUPTMANN 

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION byL. LEWISOHN 



DEFINITIVE EDITION IN SIX VOLUMES 



CONTENTS 



VOLUME I 
Social Dramas 

Before Dawn 
The Weavers 
The Beaver Coat 
The Conflagration 

VOLUME III 

Domestic Dramas 

The Eeconciliation 
Lonely Lives 
Colleague Crampton 
Michael Kramer 

VOLUME V 

Symbolic and Historical 
Dramas 

Schluck and Jau 
And Pippa Dances 
Charlemagne's Hostage 



VOLUME II 

Social Dramas 

Drayman Henschel 
Kose Bernd 
The Rats 

VOLUME IV 

Symbolic and Legendary 
Dramas 

Hannele 

The Sunken Bell 

Henry of Aue 

VOLUME VI 

Later Dramxis in Prose 

The Maidens of the 
Mount 

Griselda 

Gabriel Schilling's Flight 



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" This beautiful edition of Hauptmann's plays 
will be noticed at length when the six volumes 
are complete. . . . We can already say that the 
format of this edition is worthy to be ranked 
with Mr. Seeker's equally beautiful edition of 
Hankin. The translation, so far as we have 
had time to look into it, is excellent. . . . Haupt- 
mann, easily the first of the German dramatists, 
is too little known in England, where he should, 
before many years have passed, speak to a larger 
audience than Ibsen has ever been able to 
command. When this edition has laid open the 
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Tvill more particularly explain why people inter- 
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dramatic author of to-day." 

ATHEN^UM 
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OUTLOOK 
" The event is certainly the most important 
one in the English literature of the European 
theatre since the collected edition of the plays 
of Ibsen. . . . We look upon the definitive 
English Hauptmann as a good undertaking well 
begun." 

DAILY NEWS 
" It was certainly time that English readers 



SOME PRESS OPINIONS— continued 

should have an opportunity of judging Haupt- 
mann's whole as a whole. . . . The first volume 
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DAILY EXPRESS 

•' Mr. Martin Seeker is to be congratulated 
on his enterprise of publishing in English in 
six volumes the complete dramatic works of 
Hauptmann, by far the most important of con- 
temporary German dramatists." 

BIRMINGHAM POST 
'' Both as a writer of realistic plays and a 
poetic dramatist he stands supreme above his 
contemporaries. So we may congratulate our- 
selves on the enterprise of one of our younger 
publishers, Mr. Martin Seeker, who is bringing 
out, under the editorship of Professor Ludwig 
Lewisohn, a translation of the complete dramatic 
works . . . the type is clear, the make-up of 
the page is pleasant, the binding quiet and yet 
distinctive, and the price is cheap. We hope 
that lovers of good literature — wholesome, en- 
kindling, inspiring, literature — will support 
Mr. Martin Seeker and Professor Lewisohn." 

SHEFFIELD DAILY TELEGRAPH 
" Hauptmann, it is plain enough, is a drama- 
tist that readers of no nation can afford to leave 
out of account. . . . There is certainly no living 
German writer who so well deserves the honour 
of complete translation into English that the 
editor of the volume now before us proposes to 
bestow on him." 



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